Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  The corners of his lips press down in a sad sort of anti-smile, and the emotion in his eyes make them shine. “You’ve always been more than I deserve, doll.”

  How strange it is, seeing myself through someone else’s eyes. Through someone else’s heart. Every day I look in the mirror and see a version of myself that’s been molded by my past and darkened by my shame. And I just assumed that’s how everyone else viewed me, too. That, when we’re face to face, they see the very same image I do—one that’s spoiled and broken, ruined and flawed.

  But maybe that’s not true at all.

  I don’t know what made Adair say what he did, or how he even means it.

  More than he deserves?

  As what? A friend? Or something more?

  He answers my question when he pulls me down onto his lap, wraps his arms around me, and presses me to his chest. His breath is hot on my neck, hotter than the flames licking the hearth, and I melt, melt, melt when he slides his lips over my skin.

  “Adair, we can’t…” But the words come out in a whisper, too soft and without substance, and his mouth works to swallow my doubt when he crushes his lips to mine. I try to push away, but my reluctance is only half-hearted, because…because I want this. I want this, and I don’t care how much of my sanity it’s going to cost. His absence is going to leave a hole in my life anyway, so I might as well enjoy him for as long as I can.

  Sometimes memories are enough to fill the void.

  And sometimes they’re not.

  It’s a gamble. But, then again, so is life, so…screw it.

  The fire has nothing on us as we stretch out next to it and move together, the heat from our bodies creating flames that skyrocket us out of this world and into the next. Everything about this time is soft, gentle, and so different from the desperate passion we shared two nights ago, when rough and tender were the same thing. We move slowly, so slowly, pausing often to share a kiss, a breath, a touch. My back is sweaty against the carpet, and after a while Adair pulls me up and back into his lap, giving me control, a control I’ve never known, never knew I could have. He hugs me close and tells me that I own him, that I’ll always own him, and his surrender brings a wetness to my eyes I that can’t blink away. Or maybe it’s simply the love, the shared beating of our hearts that makes me cry.

  Whatever the reason, the tears spill, silent, as I move, and Adair kisses them away, all of them, while I continue to push myself onto him, into him, wrapping myself around him as if the very act could keep him here, next to me, always.

  This thing with Adair…it’s jarred loose something in me. I’m not sure what, exactly. But the feeling is there, like something being set free. And suddenly, staring down into his eyes, I get it.

  It’s power. My power. Adair may not have given it to me but, but he led me to it, he showed me the way. And it’s up to me to decide whether or not I want to take it.

  If I do take it, I won’t have anyone to blame anymore.

  Not a faceless boy who raped me.

  Not a condescending mother I may never be able to please.

  And certainly not myself who, despite my reckless decision to accept a few drinks at a party all those years ago, didn’t deserve to be violated in the sick way that I was.

  It’s swelling up in me, all of it, a force so fierce it penetrates every cell, every molecule, every atom of my being.

  And I feel like a goddamned mother fucking warrior.

  So I push him down onto his back, my palms flat against his chest, and take every ounce of my power back.

  I’ve never understood the phrase making love, going so far as to consider those who actually use the term as foolish romantics. I assumed them to be gullible in their optimism, with the source of their disillusionment stemming, perhaps, from watching too many Disney movies flavored in happy endings. Because sex is sex is sex. And love is the last thing that sex has anything to do with.

  But…wow. I get it now. I really get it.

  And when it’s over, when I curl myself into Adair’s side and sling my arm across his chest, I know without a doubt that, with this newfound power, I’ll be able to let him go.

  Almost Seven Months Later

  The thing about confidence is that it ebbs and flows. One day you’re on top of the world, lighter than air, reeling in one beautiful synchronicity after another and feeling like you could take on anything, anyone. And then there are other days, less than favorable ones, where that blissful buoyancy cements into doubt, leaving you to crumble under the weight of your uncertainties.

  Today…is a good day.

  And I’m happy to say that most of my days are good. Taking back your power is—pun most definitely intended—a very powerful thing.

  Summers in the Midwest are humid, and my skin is slick with sweat. I hold up a finger to the couple I’m photographing and tug a scrunchie from my wrist, quickly bunching my hair and pulling it up. I decided I needed a change after Adair left, and blonde locks streaked with cotton candy pink momentarily blind me as I wind my hair into a knot. The wind immediately tears loose stands that stick to my cheeks, my neck, but it’s better than before.

  The sun is hovering just above the horizon, casting a warm, buttery glow over the field we’re shooting in. It sits behind and just to the right of my clients, a perfect halo of light bleeding down from the heavens. The couple I’m photographing are recently engaged, and while they already exude a radiance that all newly engaged couples seem to carry, the waning light dripping over their forms like golden honey makes the whole scene all the more dreamy.

  We push through the tall grass, make our way up and over hills, and spend two hours talking and shooting and enjoying the amazing weather that late June brings to the heartland. They tell me first about how they met and then the proposal, and I use every bit of it, triggering emotions with the type of questions guaranteed to elicit a smile, a tear, a quick kiss or a hug or a touch. Sometimes I do a little jig (on purpose) or trip (not on purpose), and when they laugh I pull my camera to my face and capture it all. Heads thrown back in laughter, hair blowing in the wind, smiles wide and bright and beaming.

  It’s a shine, yes. But it’s real.

  Turns out some shines actually are.

  I’ve just packed my camera away when my phone rings, and I smile as I recognize the tone. I swipe the screen, and REO Speedwagon’s I Can’t Fight This Feeling falls into silence.

  For the record, I didn’t pick the song.

  But it’s kinda sorta growing on me.

  And so is the guy who’s calling.

  “Hey, you,” I say, setting the phone to speaker so I don’t have to hold it against my sweaty ear.

  “’Cuz I can’t fight this feeling anymoooore....” Clint has a terrible singing voice, something he knows, and it just makes his rendition of the song he programed into my phone as his own personal ringtone all the more hilarious. The guy has a sense of humor, a pretty witty one when he’s not trying to put on a macho front, and I usually spend most our time together laughing and wiping tears from my eyes.

  His singing fades a bit, and I hear a turn signal click-click-click in in the background.

  “Are you driving right now?” I frown as I hop into my truck and jam the key into the ignition. “Clint, you know how I feel about…”

  “Relax, babe. The company car has Bluetooth. I’m talking to you totally hands free.” He chuckles. “I won’t become a statistic, I promise.” Clint works in digital media sales for a company based out of Minneapolis but, fortunately, is able to work remotely when not on the road. He ended up staying in Minnesota after the holidays, completely ghosting from Cedar Hills and my life entirely, and started working for the well-established company right after the new year. But because most of his clientele is in the southern half of the Midwest, he moved back to Cedar Hills so he could travel between them more easily. I doubt very much that it was our conversation that sparked his abrupt change and forced him to grow up, but more than likely something that happ
ened back home. Either way, I’d like to smack a kiss onto whoever or whatever it was that knocked some sense into him. Turns out Clint is a good guy, and he deserves so much better than the life he was allowing himself.

  “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Tech Savvy and your hoity toity Bluetooth,” I quip back. “How far out are you?”

  “About half an hour. Just need to swing by my place and grab a shower before heading over, if that’s okay.”

  “Take your time,” I say, wrinkling my nose as my own sweaty aroma fills the truck’s hot interior. “I’ve been tromping around in the heat and shimmying up trees for the past two hours, and I reek. My shower tonight is going to be an elaborate affair, let me tell you.”

  Clint snorts a laugh. “Shimmying up trees? Do I want to know?”

  “I needed the angle. You know me, anything for the shot.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know.” There’s a smile in his voice, though, and I like the way the timbre tickles my ears and makes me bite my lip to keep from grinning like a fool. In the two months we’ve been dating, Clint has come along on some of my more strenuous shoots, holding the camera bag and toting equipment. He’s been a good sport about it all, and The Clint that shows up on my doorstep these days is vastly different from the one I knew seven months ago.

  I’m trying to fall in love with him. I am.

  But because he’s on the road a lot, two months of dating really only feels like a couple of weeks, even with our precarious history thrown in the mix. And because of said history coupled with the fact that we’re both focusing on bettering ourselves, we’ve been taking things extra slow. So slow that most of our dates include light hand holding and keeping what few make-out sessions we do have completely PG-13.

  But what I feel for Clint is stronger than what I’ve felt for any other guy I’ve dated. We’ve fallen into comfortable companionship, and he hasn’t pushed me into anything I’m not ready for. He’s been sweet and gentle, traits he embodied all along and seemed to cultivate during our four-month split. When I ran into him at the grocery store two months ago—him buying a couple dozen frozen dinners and me loading up on wine and junk food for my solitary date night with the newest must-see Netflix series—I barely recognized him, if only because his face wasn’t twisted into his usual trademark smirk. There was a humbleness to his features that hadn’t been there before. He was thinner, a little less soft and a lot more toned. I’d been in a hurry, breezing through the frozen food section with dreams of jalapeño poppers and cheese sticks running through my head, and ran my cart right into the back of his shins. When he turned around and I realized who it was, I cringed, remembering the unpleasant way we left things back on New Year’s Eve and the way our relationship dissolved with one little phone call. But when he looked up and his eyes met mine, he smiled. There was no anger, no hurt, no bitterness left over from our argument all those months ago. And when I couldn’t find any animosity lurking behind his gin, I found myself shooting him one back.

  Weird, isn’t it, the way some people find their way back into your life? Fitting better than they did before?

  The setting sun slants through the windshield, sifting lazy dust motes through the air, and the prairie outside the truck takes on an otherworldly quality. It’s a dreamscape, one I’ll never tire of looking at, even though it looks different to me now—a little faded, the colors not as rich—though I can’t put my finger on why. It’s a subtle change, but one I can’t help but notice.

  Clint and I talk for a bit longer, me keeping him company during his drive like he kept me company back in December, when I was waiting for…him—

  Adair

  —to finish wrapping up what I thought at the time was a booty call.

  I don’t think about my Scottish friend much.

  I try not to think about him at all.

  Sometimes the only way to fully enjoy the gift of the present is to let go of the past.

  Sometimes the mountain you have to move is all in your mind and, if you think about it too hard and for too long, it won’t budge.

  Sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty.

  Which is why, when Clint asks me what I want for dinner, I find myself blurting out, “You.”

  To quote Adair, I “grabbed the bull by the balls” after he left and pursued my photography business with the type of fervor I’d never approached anything with before. I wish I could say that I did it for myself, that the rekindled power that keeps my back ramrod straight and my chin held high ignited in me the type of can’t-stop-won’t-stop sort of motivation that all successful people possess in spades, but…yeah.

  No.

  I buried myself in work to stay busy. To keep my mind off the things I couldn’t change and focusing instead on the things I could. So far, it hasn’t worked, because while I want to remember nothing, I remember everything. And because even though I was able to let him go, it still hurt like hell watching him leave.

  But, I have learned one thing. One insurmountable lesson that has irrefutably changed my life… Turns out when you stop playing the victim card and actually apply yourself to your dreams, they pan out. I mean, who would have thought, right?

  Strength is a choice. One I thought I’d made when I stayed silent about what happened to me that night sixteen years ago. But by holding the experience in, even with the little bit I could remember of it, I’d unknowingly kept myself a victim. And I continued to play that card every damn day since it happened, falling headfirst into the role and letting it interfere with every decision I made. People crumble under the weight of pressure all the time, never realizing they have the power to pull themselves from the rubble.

  It may have taken me sixteen years, but I’ve finally pulled myself out of the goddamn rubble.

  “So, have you guys set a date yet?”

  We’re at our favorite dive, Bert’s Bar, and celebrating George and Ian’s engagement over pitchers of beer and pizza. It’s hardly high end but, as everyone is covered in dirt and grime from the softball game earlier this evening, it’s pretty much the only establishment in town that would let us in. Which is just fine, because the beer is cheap and the food is good and the company is even better.

  The first month of this season has been a tough one and now, with June already fading into July, I’ve had to take my position as cheerleader in the stands to a whole new level. Without Adair’s wicked bat and speed in left field, the team has been struggling.

  George’s cheek is streaked with dirt from when she slid into home base, scoring the tie breaking run that won Wright Auto Repair the game. She purses her lips as she mulls the question over, tugs on the braid draped over her shoulder. “We’re not sure yet.” She shoots a meaningful look Ian’s way and grins mischievously. “We miiiiight be thinking of Vegas.” She says this like a question, then confesses, “Or someplace. Neither of us want a big wedding, so…”

  Ian smiles as he licks his thumb and swipes it against the smear on her cheek, although as the team’s new catcher, his face is coated in more dust than hers. “We just know we want it to be soon,” he says.

  “Vegas is overrated,” Miles’s fiancé, Jen, points out with a sniff. “Trust me. All show and no go.”

  Miles reaches for the closest pitcher and refills his glass. “I don’t know,” he says, thoughtfully. “Vegas sounds pretty good to me. Quick and easy. Personally, I think people put way too much fuss into wedding planning.” He hides his smirk behind his drink, his eyes dancing over the rim.

  “Dude,” I warn, shaking my head and clicking my tongue. “You…are…asking for it.” I’ve been in on the wedding planning with these two for the last six months, and as much as I love Mile’s fiancé, she’s one hell of a Bridezilla. They’re getting married in the backyard of their newly renovated farm house this October and, let me just say, it’s going to be the wedding of the year. Or the century, if Jen has anything to say about it.

  Jen smacks his arm, her blue eyes flashing. “Don’t even joke about it,” she says before
returning her attention back to George. “All I’m gonna say on the matter is that marriage is special and if you’re going do it, do it someplace grand. Not artificial. My first wedding was officiated by an Elvis impersonator. Elvis!” She slaps her delicate hand against the table, her raven pony tail bouncing as if it, too, wants to emphasize her point.

  George furrows her brow, like a kid who just had her prize piece of artwork smashed, and I can already see her rethinking the idea. I open my mouth to reassure her that, whatever destination she an Ian decide on, their wedding will be magical—but someone beats me to it.

  “This might be just me, but I think it has more to do with the couple than the place. And if you two are hellbent on eloping, there are a ton of spots along the North Shore of Lake Superior. Closer than Vegas and better scenery. Again, just my opinion.” Clint, who’s sitting next to me and wearing his own team jersey, arches a brow and shrugs. “If I wanted to avoid the hassle of a big wedding, that’s where I’d go.”

  George perks up, and I glance at Clint in surprise. He just smiles before burying his nose in his drink.

  “That, actually, isn’t such a bad idea,” she says, turning to Ian. “What do you think? Bohemian lakeside elopement?”

  He smiles and wraps and arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side and dropping a kiss on her forehead. “Just tell me where and when, and I’m there.”

  The conversation starts to drift, topics that split from one into two into three, and it’s not long before the whole table is a cacophony of gossip, phasing in with the rest of the bar noise. Someone drops a few dollars into the juke box in the back of the room and Bad Moon Rising croons from the speakers followed by a whole set of Tom Petty songs. Clint refills my second glass, letting his hand rest on my thigh when he’s finished, and I watch him fall into an easy conversation with Ian, the two discussing something about the stock market which, until this very moment, I didn’t even know Clint dabbled in.